


Can't Stay Here

by samalander



Series: Better Than Silence [3]
Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alley Sex, Clubbing, Dancing, Drinking, F/M, Female Characters, Fingerfucking, Revenge Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Wall Sex, random background characters from the 616
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:17:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1657895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a night out with their team, Clint and Natasha have to deal with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Stay Here

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to enigma731 for kicking my ass, as always.
> 
> Title from "[Closing Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGytDsqkQY8)" by Semisonic.  
>  _Closing time_  
>  _Open all the doors and let you out into the world_  
>  _Closing time_  
>  _Turn all of the lights on over every boy and every girl_  
>  _Closing time_  
>  _One last call for alcohol so finish your whiskey or beer_  
>  _Closing time_  
>  _You don't have to go home but you can't stay here_  
>  _I know who I want to take me home..._

The club is dark and loud and the beer is almost warm, but Clint swallows it anyway, doing his best not to stare at the dance floor as he leans against the bar.

"It was better when we could smoke in here," Rumlow says, his breath hot on Clint's neck. Clint shrugs. Smoking was never his vice--it wasn't really the kind of vice he could take on, the kind of addiction a sniper could afford.

"'S nice to be able to see," he shouts back, glancing at the dance floor. Rumlow says something in reply but Clint doesn't hear it over the music, which has the kind of persistent beat that all club music tends to have. It doesn't help that Natasha is out on the floor, moving like it's a competition, like she's dancing to save her life. She's surrounded by a gaggle of other women, other agents, but she shines the brightest to Clint’s eye. Every man in the bar is staring, watching how her body moves, and it's an exercise in will to not join them, not get up and get his hands on her.

This had started as a happy hour, a fun Friday thing for the Deltas, just back from a mission in Panama. But as the night worn on, happy hour had turned to dinner and then the club, and Clint is so tempted to go out and dance, to put his hands on Natasha, that it almost hurts to stay and pretend Rumlow is interesting.

He manages to tear his eyes away from his partner--how she makes a tank top and jeans look like molten sex is utterly beyond him--and turns back to Rumlow, who is grousing about something, the lack of chicks or the last mission, or whatever's up his ass today.

"Yup," Clint nods, tossing his head back and draining his beer. There's a feeling in his stomach, a tight little knot that has everything to do with Natasha and Clint hates it, hates that he's weak enough to want her. 

He's decided to get another beer and is trying to signal the bartender when a hand lands on Clint's shoulder.

"Dance with us," Bobbi grins, and Clint nods, letting her take his hand. It's weird, he thinks, to be led onto the floor by his ex-wife, by a woman he used to love so completely, but he lets her take his hand and guide him to where she and the others are stationed, moving in all kinds of sinful combinations.

Clint's no slouch on the dance floor, took his lessons from the woman at the circus who trained the bears, learned how to find a beat and move with it. His hands grip Bobbi's hips, and they work together in a way that belies the practice they have, the way they used to be in bed, used to know each other.

He feels Natasha's eyes hot on his neck, knows she's staring. He wonders, vaguely, how much she knows about him and Bobbi, how much she's gleaned from interactions and hacked files.

He glances over his shoulder to see Natasha dancing with Sharon, but Bobbi lays a hand on his cheek and turns his face back towards her.

"Are you fucking Natasha?" she asks, and if Clint can't hear her, well. He's known how to read lips for years. He shrugs and then nods.

"She likes you," Bobbi offers, and Clint can't help but laugh. She doesn't like him. He's warm and safe and convenient. He may as well be Rumlow or Sitwell or Sharon-- a body with a pulse to entertain her.

"Really," Bobbi insists, her eyebrows high. "You should date her."

Clint isn't sure when Bobbi got to be so damn funny, but he doesn't dignify that with a response, just lets the rhythm take over, just moves his hips and takes the music into his bloodstream, where it mingles with the alcohol and the high of pretty women looking at him and lulls him into comfort.

The songs change a few times, and Clint swaps partners, from Bobbi to Jess Drew to Sharon to Brock, for some reason. (And he has to admit that, as annoying and authoritarian as Rumlow can be, he's not a bad dancer. Maybe in another life, one where the guy can't talk, he would see where that went.) By the time he's done with that dance, Clint is ready for a break, the sweat starting to bead on the back of his neck from the movement and the crush of bodies on the floor.

The bathroom is quieter, but the sound echoes as Clint splashes water on his face, hoping to erase the hot intensity of Natasha's gaze. He doesn't know why he hasn't danced with her yet, why he's avoiding her, but she hasn't made any advances either, so maybe he's absolved from thinking about it too hard.

He stares at his reddened face in the mirror, trying to get a grip, to get away from the specter of Natasha, of the way her body was in concert with his in the gym, the way she looked back at him when he fucked her from behind, her perfect ass bouncing with every thrust, and the way she left after, the way she ran from him.

It was weeks ago, almost a month. And he can't stop thinking about, can't stop feeling the phantom brush of her lips against his, the heat of her body around his.

Clint takes a few deep breaths and looks himself in the eyes. "It was just sex," he breathes. "Get a fucking grip, Barton." He's always been a pro at lying to himself. He keeps repeating it in his head-- _it was just sex, it was just sex_ \-- until he feels like he can get back out there, get himself back into having fun with his friends.

The bathroom door swings out, which is probably why he doesn't see her at first. But Clint only manages a few steps back towards the dance floor before a hand closes, soft and steel, on his wrist and pulls, propelling him around to face his assailant.

Reflexively he reaches for the gun at his hip, but it's not there, it's in his locker back at SHIELD with his bow. Still, his heart pounding again and his muscles coiled, it takes a few seconds for Clint's vision to clear enough to make out Natasha's grinning face in the murky hallway.

"Hey, stud," she says, her voice just audible over the thrumming of the music. "Avoiding me?"

Clint raises an eyebrow. "Thought it was the other way around, sweetheart," he sneers. "You're the one who always runs away."

Natasha laughs, her lip curling up to show him a flash of her sharp teeth. "I'm not a cuddler," she says, like he should know, like it's what he was actually asking.

"Whatever," he says, turning to leave again, but she catches his wrist in that same velvet-solid grip.

Something about the lights of the hallway, the way the flashing strobe pulses behind him makes Natasha seem almost otherworldly, oddly ethereal as he looks back at her. "I'm sorry," she says, but Clint doesn't think he's dumb enough to believe her. He hopes he isn't.

"That's nice."

Natasha pulls his wrist again, tugging him towards her, so he has no choice but to invade her personal space. Clint shakes his head.

"I don't wanna be a warm body for you to manipulate," he says before he can think, and he thinks the words shock him as much as they do her. 

For a moment Natasha's mouth hangs open, her eyes wide in the pulsing reflections. "You're not," she says, but her voice is lost, he only gets her words from the movement of her lips. "It's not like that."

Clint shakes his head. "Don't lie, sweetheart."

She shakes her head and takes a step back, pulling him with her as she moves for the exit, the red glow of the sign making her seem hellish, now, the opposite of the flashing dance floor lights. 

"Let me show you," she says, her eyes hooded.

It's a terrible idea. A really awful one. Clint knows that, knows better than to give in to her. But still he follows, lets her lead him out the back door and into the brick-lined alley.

It's dingy, but it's not the worst place Clint has ever had sex, not by a long shot, so he doesn't spare the dumpsters and the loose asphalt much thought as he pushes her against the wall.

"You want this?" he asks, staring into her eyes for a moment. "Here?"

Natasha just nods.

It's all he needs, all the permission he's gonna ask for, so Clint slides his hands onto her hips, pulls her body close to his as he presses her back onto the bricks, and kisses her.

It's not a sweet kiss, not the kind of kiss he fantasizes about when he's alone. It's rough and it's a little cruel as he takes her bottom lip between his teeth, biting down harder than he should. She rewards him with a moan, her arms looping around his neck and pulling his head down to hers.

They kiss like they're both starving, and Clint lets himself imagine, for a brief moment of insanity, that maybe she wants this as bad as he does, maybe she's missed the way his fingertips press into her skin as much as he's missed the sweet taste of her on his tongue. 

Yeah, he's a great liar.

Still, she hitches a knee up around his hip, the pointed heel of her shoe digging into his ass in a way that would urge him forward, if he could get any closer to her. He runs a hand across her stomach and up under her shirt, the taut skin of her stomach soft in comparison to his calloused fingertips. He flicks open the button of her jeans, tugs down the zipper and, without much preamble, slips his fingers into the waistband of her underwear.

(And they’re the same cotton bikini-cut type she wears in the gym, which sends Clint's head spinning-- does it mean she planned this, that she knows he likes them? She would, it's the kind of thing she’d know. Or does it mean that she _wasn't_ planning this, that she just can't resist him? The possibilities are endless and delicious and he could swallow them whole and be satisfied, if only there wasn't a woman under his hands, an insistent urge driving him forward.)

His hand slips over the soft curls at the apex of her thighs and between her legs. She's wet, which is another jolt to Clint, another thing that threatens to send him sprawling. He breaks the kiss to look her in the eye, to try and gauge a reaction.

"You looked hot," she breathes, an answer to his unasked question. "Watching you dance. The way-- You and Bobbi move well together."

Clint smirks, a smile he hopes is equal parts cocky and irritating, a smile he wants to drive her up to the edge of her patience. "I got my hand in your pants," he breathes, dropping his head to kiss her neck. "And you wanna talk about my ex-wife?"

She doesn't react, but he didn't think she would. "You and your ex-wife looked like you were fucking on the dance floor," she says, tilting her head back so he can access her neck better, hitching her knee higher to give him a better angle to touch her. "Couldn't help thinking about your cock, you know?"

Clint's hips surge forward a little at her words, wishing for friction, but he's not there yet, not ready to fuck her. Instead he thumbs her clit softly. "This how you wanted it?" he asks, nipping her earlobe as she fists her fingers in the short hairs at the back of his neck, a breathy little sigh escaping her lips. "In an alley by some fucking dumpsters?"

"Beats the gym," she says, and Clint's not sure that's true. But he decides to reward her anyway, flicking her clit again gently before angling his fingers back, tight in the denim of her jeans, and managing to slip a finger into her.

Natasha lets her eyes flutter closed, her teeth worrying her bottom lip just like his did earlier. Clint can't help the surge of pride and lust that fills his chest, the desire burning hot under his skin.

"You know what you're gonna do?" he growls, doing his best to work with what he has, the lack of space in her pants, the urge to give up and strip her bare in the alley.

"What?" she breathes, opening her eyes. They're green, he thinks, green like jealousy, like he managed to provoke that in her. That thought makes him feel immense, the idea that she gives him some tiny bit of power over her.

"You're gonna come for me," he says, finding her clit again with his thumb. "You're gonna fucking come on my fingers in a filthy back alley cause I looked so good dancing that you _had_ to have me. You _needed_ me. That's what you're gonna do. And you know why?"

Vivid green eyes, pupils blown, ragged breath and her hips moving with a kind of frightening grace and passion. "Why?" she asks, her voice like a breeze, light and fleeting.

Clint swallows hard, and kisses her neck before biting down, sucking an angry mark into the juncture of her shoulder. He straightens his back a little to whisper in her ear.

"You're mine. You don't wanna be. You don't like it. But you fucking-- you want me, and you don't know why, yeah? Cause you're mine, and I'm under your skin, and I'm not leaving."

Natasha curses but doesn't push him away, just pulls his head forward to kiss him ferociously.

Lies, he thinks. He should have a fucking PhD in lies.

But he just speeds up his hand, his fingers working her body until he feels her stiffen under him. She moans his name, just the whisper of _Clint_ escaping her lips as her eyes close, taking their green deception with them.

He kisses her, trying to drink in that word, that breathless way she calls for him, so quiet it might have been a dream. She’s clinging to him, her body wrapped around him as he pulls his hand from her pants, lifting it to his nose for a second before sucking one of his fingers into his mouth.

"God," he breathes in her ear. "You know how good you taste?"

She makes a little noise and untangles her fingers from his hair, letting her hands fall to rest on the back of his neck and getting her foot back on the ground. "Not as good as you," she purrs, her too-pink tongue darting out to wet her lips.

It's only a split second of movement, but Natasha manages to turn him, slamming has back against the wall in a way that knocks the air from him for a moment.

"Your turn," she says, undoing his pants with a deftness learned from countless marks who died with their dicks in her mouth.

Clint catches her wrists, stopping her before she gets his fly down. He's hard, something he's sure she clocked the second they stepped into the alley, but he's willing to take it to the shower tonight, this time. 

"No," he says.

The look on Natasha's face flickers for a moment, a mix of confusion and hurt, but her seductress mask slides back into place before he can do more than register it.

"Your place or mine?" she asks, palming him through his pants.

"Neither," he says, pushing off the wall, causing her to take a step back. Clint takes a second to breathe, just the moment he needs to assure himself that this is right, before he shrugs and turns on his heel, heading for the street. "See you at work on Monday," he calls over his shoulder, not daring to look back at her, afraid that she'll do something, say something that will break his resolve. Which, to be fair, isn't that strong at the moment.

He pauses to do up his pants before hailing a cab. He doesn't have the energy for the subway, not tonight. He's used all his energy on Natasha.

But at least she knows, now. What it feels like to watch someone else leave.


End file.
